the experts all can't figure it out, or give it a name. To me, it seems obvious: It is teenage. It is a big white car. It is a cul-de-sac. It is Love.

I write this now, very tired and drunk. I have tried to write this piece a few times. I am bothering to write this at all because Shannon McCulloch’s work is very important.

The following is an unabridged letter I posted to Miami, intended to be read by only one very specific individual. I’m not sure if I will share his response or if I will ever receive one. I’m not even sure it reached him. I’m also not counting on a reply. I have since realised that it is inappropriate to write such a thing to a stranger and, even stranger yet, to go and share it with more strangers. Still, I’d imagine that if this individual were to google himself, he might come across a strange piece of writing addressed to him and be compelled to write back.